A Place in Thy Memory
by Vesica
Summary: When Mina shows up on Dorian's doorstep, Gentlemen in tow, Dorian finds himself lost in memories of a romance ended and the promise of a future. NEW CHAPTER UP (at last)!
1. Prologue

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** Spoilers for the movie.  A touch of slash – sorry, but Wilde made it quite clear that Dorian is, at the least, bisexual.  Oh, and this fic may have you running for a thesaurus.  Consider yourselves warned that you might actually learn something!

**Disclaimer:** To 'borrow' a disclaimer from another author: All your bases belonging to us.  Intellectual property rights are another matter. I have endeavored to provide credit where credit is due (see the numerous footnotes).  

**Author's Note:** Apologies to those of you who were following this one from the start on Fanfiction.net.  I reached a wall in chapter 13 and after some time realized this one needed a major overhaul.  This was my very first fanfic and I think I got a little lost along the way.  The main plot is still here, just a bit of clean up and fleshing out.  Thanks for reading!  As always, feedback is greatly appreciated and responded to, provided you leave an e-mail address.  I hope this version is a change for the better.  Enjoy!

****

****

**Prologue**

****

Dorian closed the door, making sure the latch caught.  He slipped off his jacket, carefully hanging it before removing his vest and draping it over the hanger as well.  He knelt by the large chest at the foot of his bed.  Carefully rolling up each shirt sleeve, so as not to dirty them, he dug through the trunk finally pulling out a slim volume.  Taking a seat at the small desk, he read over what had been written.  After some thought he flipped the lid of his inkwell, and dipping his pen, began to write.

_                                                                                                             "A place in thy memory, dearest,___

_                                                                                                                         Is all that I claim;___

                                                                                                     To pause and look back when thou hearest 

_                                                                                                                       The sound of my name. (1)"_**__**

__

They say memory is one form of immortality, that to be remembered and thought of by others is a means of living forever.  I certainly never gave such philosophizing a moment's thought as a young man for the young rarely believe in their own mortality.  Besides, few would forget such a handsome and charming gentleman.  Later, when I was destined to be eternally young if no longer a gentleman, I never thought to find myself desiring that sort of continuance.  Perhaps I am growing sentimental in my later years for, in truth, I would have given most anything to be remembered by her.  I had wondered often in the intervening years if she still thought of me, as I thought of her.  In writing this, the story of how our paths crossed, maybe I will achieve immortality of another sort.  At the very least, she will live on.

In all my years, immortality had brought me many things but surprises, particularly exciting ones, had long since ceased to be among those things.  On the whole, it had been an exceedingly dull affair, where excitements and stimulating experiences were as rare as the London sun.  Therein lay the appeal of this whole 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen' venture.  It promised, at the least, some excitement and perhaps a delicious surprise or two.   How could I resist such a tantalizing prospect, particularly one involving more than a little self-interest?

Excitement was certainly there right from the beginning, though not the best kind.  When given a choice, I tend to favor excitement of the non-life threatening kind.  However, one is rarely given choice in regards to threats, thus preserving their effectiveness.  Would I have gotten involved if not compelled to?  Probably not and that I suppose should make me grateful that the choice was not mine to be made.  Truly grateful in that I have been given a second chance with the one woman I've had cause to regret my treatment of.  Forgive me; as I get ahead of myself and my tale.  It began, as so many epic adventures do, on an unremarkable night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_(1) __Quoted from 'A Place in thy Memory' by Gerald Griffin_


	2. Ma Belle Dame

**Author's Note:**As always a big thank you to the betas.  To Foxfire, who beta'ed this all - I can never thank you enough.  Gracias to Misha for helping me with the French here.  And a thanks to Actionhero for listening to me babble about this for forever, seeing the movie with me, twice, and giving such nice feedback!****

****

**Chapter 1 – Ma Belle Dame******

I had returned home that evening to find an empty space on my wall, only a faint outline of the frame remaining.  Gone was the shrouded form I was so used to seeing hanging there, and a note addressed simply to 'Dorian', which I thought a most impertinent liberty, sat on the table on the stair landing.  The note instructed me to meet 'an interested party in need of your talents', providing an address in a reasonably fashionable district and a date a few days hence.  I cursed myself a fool, to leave something so valuable unguarded.  Yet my enemies were long dead and, as far as I knew, none knew I lived on, a virtual hermit in the tiny townhouse amid the docks.   Oh how those days stretched on; no narcotic could quell the fear, no indulgence lessened the strain.  Yet the fear was exhilarating – at last, something new to occupy my mind.   Who could have sought me out and for what purpose?  I was almost jovial when the appointed day finally arrived. 

I was a trifle disappointed upon meeting 'M', as he preferred to be called.  Somehow I had expected something else; perhaps a more tailored man, or the least a taller man, to be wielding such power over me.  We began awkwardly.  He had the audacity to suggest, in a joking manner that was anything but, that I might call him 'sir'.  Seeing that was not going to occur, he quickly moved past such formalities detailing his plans to form what he had named the 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen'.  The ardor with which he spoke of this 'League' made it clear that this was some sort of personal quest.  He spoke as if this were a sacred mission, to not only to gather these men, but to ultimately deceive them and build some sort of a vast empire.  Frankly, the details beyond my part in the plot and the speedy return of my painting were lost on me.  My stifled yawns must not have been too obvious, or 'M' was in sore need of a captive listener, for the briefing stretched on interminably, made bearable only by excellent spirits, freely dispensed.  I returned home, to wait for the 'Gentlemen' to come to me, as lambs to the slaughter.

I did not have long to wait.  A week after my meeting with 'M' there came a loud knocking, interrupting an enlightening perusal of a text on the reign of Gaius Germanicus _(1)_.  On my doorstep stood three of the 'Gentlemen', or more accurately two gentlemen and a floating coat.  I let them make their little speech, trying not to look too remote.  They waited to be invited in but my humour had taken a rather perverse turn at the interruption of my educational evening.   I decided to test their resolve, to put a stumbling block in their way.  I was about to bid them a pleasant evening, pleasant so long as they pursued it somewhere other than my doorstep, but I never got that far – a voice from the darkened street stopped me.

"Dorian."  That wickedly beguiling blend of reproach and amusement hung in the humid night air.

The gentlemen parted, revealing the one person I thought never to see again, even in my infinite lifetime.  It seems the mysterious 'M' is not only a blackmailer, a most pedestrian of criminal pursuits and one quite dismaying in an individual with such grand, nefarious plots, but a bit of a starry-eyed romantic.  Why else would he subject me to that lengthy, soporific briefing and somehow fail to mention the involvement of the most intriguing woman I've encountered in my, shall we say, extensive experience? 

"Mina." I stepped aside, letting her pass.  Closing the door behind the last of the gentlemen, who tipped his hat to me with unseen hand, I entered the foyer, silently approaching Mina as she stood gazing out the bay window.  While the others soaked in the ambiance of decaying opulence, shaking the damp from their clothing, I moved to stand behind her, casually resting a hand on her slim waist.

 "So you have returned to me at last, _ma belle dame._" 

She stiffened but did not pull away. 

_"Ne m'appelez pas par ce nom. Vous savez comme je le déteste."_

With a soft laugh, I pulled her closer. 

_"Vous? Formel comme toujours, je vois."_

Letting my hand slide lower, I gave her hip a playful squeeze. 

"_Je jouerai ce rôle si vous l'exigez_."

Quatermain let out polite cough and she drew away, turning to face the others.  In that moment I resolved that, if ever it fell within my power, Quatermain's demise would be an unexpected bonus to this undertaking.  He politely ignored my glower.

"We have an important matter to discuss with you, Mr. Gray."

Turning to fully face my guests, I assumed a placid countenance.  

"Shall we adjourn to the library?" 

I paused, letting Mina pass.  She deliberately brushed her skirt against my legs as she passed, her quiet amusement meant only for me.

_"Vous faîtes toujours le loup qui fait l'agnea."(2)__.___

She turned, giving me one last look, searing for its brevity.  Perhaps Quatermain's death could wait.  As I lead my new associates up the stairs, I could not help but think, 

_The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,___

_And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there (3)_.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

__

_1 Gaius Germanicus, a Ceaser of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, better known by his nickname, Caligula.___

__

_2 For the non-French speakers, Mina and Dorian's conversation was as follows.  He called her 'my beautiful lady'.  She replied 'Don't call me that name.  You know how I hate it.'  He laughed at her use of the formal form of 'you' saying, 'Vous?' Formal as ever I see'.  He went on to say 'I will play this role if you demand it'.  When Quartermain interrupts their reunion, Mina tells Dorian ' You are always a wolf feigning to be a lamb'._

_3From Mary Howitt's The Spider and the Fly, most commonly recognized by its opening line, "'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly". ___


	3. A Ghost of the Night

**Chapter  2 – A Ghost of the Night ******

There is a great advantage to be had in already knowing that which people are trying to explain to you.  I listened only enough to answer intelligently when required, but mostly I watched Mina.  She had changed little, if at all, since I last saw her five years ago.  If anything, she seemed more amiable and more certain of herself than ever.  I was hoping to reach a private agreement with her as to the price of my involvement in this 'League' when M made his dramatic appearance.

I would have appreciated his flair for the theatric more if it had not wreaked such havoc on my library.  Still, it had been ages since I had gotten a chance to display my swordsmanship and it warmed my heart to hear Mina's cry of dismay as one of M's hirelings attempted to dispatch me.  Bullets, in my opinion, have added nothing to the sport of warfare.  Anyone can point a gun at someone, though it is a good idea to fire only at those actually harmed by bullets.  Once again, I wondered what exactly was behind this quest of M's that he had retained such novice help.  As it was, my suit was utterly ruined, both by the bullets and by the hand of my attacker as he died at my feet. Fortunately, I had long made it a habit to own at least three of any flattering garb.  The destruction of that particularly smart bit of tailoring did result in a most amusing attempt by Mina to watch, while not seeming to do so, as I changed into a shirt and vest.  Quatermain and Sawyer returned, unsuccessful, from their pursuit of M and conversation once more turned to my potential participation with the League.

Little did I realize the most exciting event of the evening was yet to come.  Witnessing Mina's swift turnabout on M's remaining agent was, stimulating, to say the least.  I was not the only one captivated by this display of her true nature.  All the gentlemen eyed her with a curious blend of caution and interest.  I, however, was not pleased to note the look of frank admiration by the young American.  Nor the way he squirmed at the sudden tightness of his trousers.  I had suspected Mina was not as she seemed during our months together but never did I suspect this.  Nosferatu, Vampyre—why, what civilized man would believe in a child's fairytale creature?  Yet there she was, demurely dabbing the blood from her face. Her unusual attributes made her all the more fascinating to me and explained more than a few things that had puzzled me.  I doubt the other gentleman realize how close we came to further bloodshed that evening when that colonial pup wormed his way into their ranks, seeming none too eager to convince me to join them.  Never have I seen such revoltingly obvious courtship but Mina seemed only amused.  Recognizing my opportunity for further negotiations was lost, I agreed at once.  What choice did I have?  I was compelled to join them, both to regain possession of my painting and to keep an eye on this Sawyer.

During dinner, aboard Nemo's Freudian nightmare of a ship, she was quite subdued.  The others were still uncomfortable around her, made more so by the show she was making of eating dainty bites of food, which we now knew was not nearly as appealing as her fellow diners.  Sitting beside her, I tried to keep her distracted with pleasant, trivial conversation but the tension was still there.  As the main course was being cleared, she set aside her napkin and addressed the group.

"Please excuse me.  I think I will retire for the evening.  Captain Nemo, now that we are out at sea and above water again, would it be possible for me to step out for a bit of air?"

Nemo smiled and gave her directions to the observation deck.  I quickly stood, pulling her chair out for her.  As she stood, the other gentlemen rose obligingly.  Aware of the eyes on her, she straightened and, with a smile and nod to the company, swept out.  Watching her go, there was something in that walk that called to mind the first time I ever saw her.  

She had been walking down a street in a most unseemly neighborhood at a positively scandalous hour.  Her carriage drew my attention like a match struck suddenly in a dim room.  There was a power and purpose in her stride and a challenge in the sure tilt of her head.  As she came closer, the gaslights revealed the drab, shabby costume of some menial labourer, perhaps a charwoman.  But surely this was no charwoman – pale skin radiant and a flash of auburn peeking from beneath the ugliest monstrosity ever to call itself a hat, striding defiantly through the dark.  She crossed in front of my carriage and quickly turned down a narrow side alley.  

Was it a premonition or merely the tingle of recognition I felt as she looked toward me, hidden deep in the shadowy interior of the hansom, that burned that moment into my memory?  Perhaps it was the shock of seeing, in person and undeniably real, one whom I had come to believe was a fantasy.  I leapt from the cab, running into the alley I had seen her enter, but it was empty.  She was gone, like a ghost of the night, and I could only trust that my senses had not deceived me.  She was real, not some ephemeral invention of a deluded mind.  She was real and, in that moment I realized, I despised her.

Novelists are adept at pinpointing the beginning – selecting a moment and saying with certainty 'Here it began; here began the love, the hate, the whole of the tale' _(1)_.  Creating fiction, dealing in untruths, gives an unfair advantage and I have not their talent for neatly arranging the chaotic _mélange_ of events we call life into a neat timeline of cause and effect.  Yet if forced to select a moment to mark as the genesis, it would not have been that night, watching a bit of corporeal ether cross a street, but rather an unremarkable evening a few months earlier in, of all places, a humble flat in the East End.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) While not a direct quote, the philosophy is heavily inspired by the opening pages of Graham Greene's wonderful novel, The End of the Affair._


	4. The Tempting Muse

**Chapter 3 - The Tempting Muse**

I had long been in the habit of supporting artists I thought promising.  Some I grew quite close to, benevolently guiding their transition from uncertainty and impoverished obscurity to the warm praise and adulation of drawing rooms and galleries alike.  At that time there was a young painter by the name of Edmund Winters producing amazing figural depictions.  From his brush came the most incredible rendering of movement, figures in mid-action, expressions half-formed and events as they unfolded.  His talent was far beyond anything I had seen but its brilliance was lost on London society.  Too unknown to be fashionable and undaunted by the squalid existence granted unfashionable artists, he labored on, wholly devoted to his art.

I had discovered him lost in literary figures – at first the Greek pantheon then Medieval lords and ladies which had led, in turn, to a fixation on the women of the Romantics.  Having spent the better part of my earlier years pouring over Byron and Blake, I enjoyed watching him bring their works to life.   Given this temporal progression, I was surprised that evening to find him hard at work on a depiction of the Greek Muses.

"The Muses, Edmund?  I thought you were done with the Greeks." 

He turned, startled, brush still in hand.    

"I didn't hear you come in.  Is it seven o'clock already?"

He laid his brush and palette on a work stand, grabbing a cloth to wipe his hands.  

"It is, but don't let me interrupt you.  Supper can wait – after all, the food at the club will get no worse as it sits."

He laughed, dropping the cloth atop brushes slick with every imaginable shade.  "Let me wash up and we can be off."  

I wandered over to look at this latest piece as he readied himself.   A typical structure – the nine muses draped in gauzy cloth, lush greenery and a few scattered remains of columns – yet there was something different about it.  Most of the Muses wore the usual expressions of polite boredom, limp hands barely grasping their symbols, eyes focused on various points behind the viewer and the tiniest of contented smiles barely curving their lips.   One, however, stood out.  A pale hand reached up to straighten the ivy wreath perched atop her deep titian locks.  The other arm supported a shepherd's staff, the hand dangling, almost resting on her hip.  And her pose—no graceful, balletic dance for this muse.   At any moment she might leap into an earthy, alluring peasant dance.   But most startling were her eyes – she was staring directly at the viewer.  Surely there was a twinkle of merriment in those greenish eyes, but also a deep sadness, as if she were burdened with some great secret, imprisoned in painted silence.  The overall effect was of a wistful, longing muse, surrounded by her sisters, yet utterly alone in some terrible knowledge. 

Suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder breaking my reverie.

"I see you've noticed Thalia.  She adds something to the piece, doesn't she?"

I stood, letting the smell of Edmund, of soap and hair oil, mingle with that of paint and turpentine.  

"Thalia?" I asked, gently grasping the hand, moving it from my shoulder.  "Isn't she rather lively for the muse of tragedy?  She certainly isn't as sober as a proper Thalia should be.  I think there is a bit of a minx in that smile."

Edmund laughed, eyeing his work critically.  "A minx?  Yes, I can see it now.  But were none of the muses temptresses?  And you forget, Dorian, she is also 'she who flourishes'. Doesn't flourishing imply an overcoming, a struggle to overcome fate or perhaps, convention?  Regardless, flourishing never struck me as an uncomplicated endeavor."

His fingers gently pressed mine before he released my hand, moving to retrieve his coat from the stand near the door.

"Besides, it is a commission piece and dear, tempting Thalia was specifically requested.  I had a few sketches provided to work from but once I began she took on a life of her own.  The gentleman is coming by next week for his first viewing."

"A commission at last? How wonderful." I donned my own cloak and gloves, entering the dingy hallway leading to the street.  "But isn't it odd for him not to view the work until it is complete?"

There was silence as Edmund climbed into the hansom, settling against the cushions with a sigh, his brow furrowed in thought.  Nodding to my driver, I took the seat opposite to him, listening to the clatter of hooves on cobblestones as we started towards the club.  Edmund stared blankly at the streets passing outside. 

"Honestly? This whole business has been odd.  I had asked him – I don't even know his name -  if he wished to visit as the piece progressed, especially since I had only sketches and he was so specific in his request concerning Thalia."  Edmund pursed his lips, pausing for a moment.

"He simply smiled at me and said 'Don't worry, the inspiration will come to you.  One morning you will awake and she will be there, in your mind, and you'll know just how to paint her'.  I thought him mad, completely daft.  But, Dorian…", here his voice barely a whisper.  With a deep steadying breath he continued. 

"It happened – just as he had described. I woke one morning, drenched with the sweat of a nightmare", he looked towards me then, a hint of fear in his eyes, "I awoke and suddenly knew."


	5. Supplication of the Naked Idol

**Chapter 4– Supplication of the Naked Idol **

****

The two glasses of brandy before dinner calmed Edmund somewhat and he was able to tell the tale.  The gentleman in question had dropped by his studio one afternoon.  He had mentioned the name of a mutual friend who had recommended Edmund.  After viewing the work Edmund had in the studio, he inquired if Edmund accepted commissions.  A large advance had been handed over, along with the mysterious sketches, and a date set for final approval.  That had been three weeks ago and, true to his word, the gentlemen had not stopped in once to see the progress.  Discussion of the mystery of the man's identity and the 'tempting Thalia', as we had come to call her, carried us through dinner and Edmund promised to send word after the gentlemen's visit the next day.

A week passed with no word and I was beginning to wonder what had happened when, at last, a note came to my London estate, Melmoth House _(1)_. 

_Dorian-_

_Our mysterious gentleman has a name – and not only a name but a title as well. Lord Godalming loved the muses and has commissioned a second work with 'Thalia'.  This time she is to be Elaine –bedecked in ribbons and embroidery – it will take me an age and half to paint! I weep thinking of the difficulty in rendering authentic reflections.  I am afraid I will have no time for dining as his Lordship has given me only another three weeks to complete a work much more detailed than the last.  I am painting my fingers to the bone as it is,  pausing only to eat and sleep.  What a celebration we will have when I finish! _

_Until that day  –_

_Edmund(2)___

Lord Godalming, indeed! While not personally acquainted with him, I knew the Lord to be well connected in society and well thought of in the House of Lords.  This boded quite well for Edmund's rise to prominence.  Buoyed by these thoughts and consumed with the flurry of activity Advent _(3)_ always brings, the weeks passed quickly, three becoming five before I noticed.  The new year was scarcely a week old when the note arrived.  It read only,

_Another success and a surprise! Elaine has come at last – not only in dreams.  I can hardly work fast enough to capture all the facets of such a muse.  She bewitches my every hour and I think I have never been as content as I am now . Thank you for all you have given me, for I would not have lasted till now, without your support..  Truly, I can never repay you.___

_Edmund Winters_

How dare he! Arrogant, presumptuous dabbler!

My fist had crumpled the note even as its implication was sinking in.  If rage could be made manifest, surely the hateful sheet would have burst into flame, not that any fire could purge those words from my mind.  Too far gone was I, lost in the worship of Shelley's naked idol of revenge _(4)_.  Civility be damned! Decorum be damned!  But mostly, I wanted Edmund damned.

The audacity – mind-boggling audacity! Just who did he think he was?  And who the hell did he think he was dealing with? As if I would slink away, tail tucked between my legs, just because this Lord's mistress, if she even merited that title, was being capricious in her favors.

The final line rankled especially, mawkish in its sincerity, as if an anemic thanks would blur the clear dismissal therein.  Tossing the wadded paper into the fire, I took up my walking stick and gloves.  Dear little Edmund had some learning to do about biting the hand that fed one.  He would realize his error soon enough, as had others before him; for while I could use my wealth and influence to bring a talent up in the world, I had no qualms about reversing the fortunes of anyone foolish enough to merit my displeasure. 

Never known for my patience, I nearly flew down the stairs, waving my man away as he hastily held out my cloak.  In the carriage house, I descended on a poor stable boy, snatching the reins of the horse he was leading before he even realized I was there.  I was in the saddle, out the gates and, probably, half-way across London before my servants found their tongues.  Every eye was on me as I thundered through the streets, unsurprisingly.  For while the spectacle of a gentlemen galloping full tilt was not an everyday sight, I know some eyes - well actually most eyes, ignoring proper levels of affected humility in favor of truth - most eyes were drawn to the vision of a raven-haired avenging angel, incandescent with wrath, disturbingly alluring, in spite of the animosity surrounding him.

At last, I neared Edmund's grubby little flat.  I leapt from the horse, handing the reins to the nearest urchin.

"You – ," I barked at the grubby creature,  "and He," pointing to the horse, head hanging and sides heaving, "had better be right here when I return."

The boy's mouth started to twist into a sneer before I fixed him with a particularly irritated glare.  He let the sneer drop but still had to add his bit of insolence, though its effectiveness was marred by his truly wretched imitation of the English Language.

"Oh yes, Your Highness. At once, Your Highness." he bent in a mocking bow. "And what's in it for me, Your High- ".

My sword was out of my cane and his cap off his head, dangling on sword-point just inches from his face, before he could finish.  

"You, you lucky thing," my voice slipping into a growl,  "You get a tomorrow – I am clear?"

He squeaked a 'Yes sir' out of a throat clenched in fear.  I flipped his filthy _chapeau_ back at him, returned my sword to concealment, and got on with the business at hand.  Reaching Edmund's flat, I eschewed knocking entirely, kicking the door open with a loud bang.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) After his incarceration, Oscar Wilde lived in France under the name of Sebastian Melmoth.  Melmoth was the title character in a gothic novel, Melmoth the Wanderer by Maturin, which tells the woeful tale of a man who trades his soul for immortality and then wanders the earth searching for anyone willing to trade places with him, as this is the only means of escaping the bargain. ___

_(2) The tales of The Lady of Shalott and that of Elaine, both  told by Tennyson, are similar enough that the names are often used interchangeably.  The Lady is often painted gazing into a mirror, ___

_                                                       "And moving thro' a mirror clear___

_                                                        That hangs before her all the year___

_                                                        Shadows of the world appear". (The Lady of Shallot)___

_(3) The Church of England celebrates Advent for approximately four weeks from the fourth Sunday before Christmas until Christmas Day.___

_(4) Here Dorian refers to Percy Bysshe Shelley's A Defense of Poetry wherein he writes,___

_"Every epoch, under names more or less specious, has deified its peculiar errors; Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age: and Self-deceit is the veiled image of unknown evil, before which luxury and satiety lie prostrate"._


	6. Madness Half Divine

**Chapter 5– Madness Half-Divine**

Nothing, not even the invigorating wrath I had so carefully nursed and kept warm as I traversed London _(1)_, prepared me for what I found there.  Edmund was a pale wraith, unkempt with his clothes hanging off a frame now gaunt.  He fixed me with the wild look of a man half mad.

"My God!" I cried, my anger giving way to horror.  "What have you been doing to yourself?"

There seemed a dim flicker of recognition as I spoke, but then he turned right back to his feverish work, ignoring me entirely.

I wandered his studio while he worked, hoping for a hint of what had transpired.  Canvasses were strewn everywhere; some with forms and color blocked in, some only sketchy scribblings in charcoal.  'Thalia' was everywhere; as a Victorian lady, a woodland spirit, a Grecian goddess in unabashed unclad splendor.  She was Athena, the Faerie Queen, Rosalind, and even, in one completed work, a mournful Blessed Mother, a pieta _(2)_ that could have moved the very heavens to lamentations.  Scattered throughout were empty bottles, from cheap drink to every medical confectionary.  Behind the weeping Madonna, I found a depleted bottle with a tincture of wormwood _(3)_, a particularly poor preparation judging from the foul odor.   That discovery, even without the witness of the other emptied vessels, could have explained his demeanor, if only he seemed more intoxicated and less disturbed.  Edmund was oblivious to my rummaging, meticulously twining painted strands of auburn hair, ruffled by a gentle breeze, around an outstretched arm in his latest work.  My anger returned, seeing him so consumed in perfecting his 'Thalia'.  I roughly seized his wrist, wresting the brush from his fingers.

"This is absurd, Edmund.  Stop this at once."

He first tried to wrench his wrist out of my hold, attempting to snatch the brush with his other hand.  When this resulted only in me tightening my hold and pulling him further from his work, he abruptly became violent, turning on me; viciously clawing at my face and striking out wildly, his lip curling back in a snarl.  Fortunately, his sudden passion was not augmented by any actual pugilistic skill and I held him off with ease. I threw the brush across the room and struck him soundly with the back of my hand.  After a few blows, his eyes seemed to clear of the feral gleam and he sagged against me, weeping.  He could barely form words as he sobbed.

"She's gone Dorian.  She's left me, alone.  She doesn't even come in dreams now.  I keep trying; to sleep, to bring on the dreams."

I grasped his shoulders and shook him roughly.  I had never known Edmund to become so maudlin when intoxicated, though I had also never known him to indulge in so many substances at once, and I was still earnestly hoping he was only drugged into insensibility.

"For God sake's Edmund, pull yourself together.  So the tart has moved on to greener pastures; Let her go."  

He let out a particularly wet sniffle and straightened, composing himself slightly.  Then he caught sight of the painting I had torn him away from. 

"My talent is all I have left but it is enough.  This one will be my masterpiece." He sighed, scrutinizing his work.

For a moment, I truly believed he was reasonable again, that he suffered only the pains of wounded pride common to lovers scorned and that he would soon mend, but he continued speaking and my heart sank.

"This will be my final painting.  For I have done the impossible; I have captured her nature," his voice breaking as he lovingly stroked the painted face.  "It is here, her true essence.  Isn't she lovely?"

It was then that my attention turned fully from the painter to the painted.  I saw what he had wrought upon the canvass and grasped the full import of his demeanor.  His fingers moved over sharp teeth peeking out from a wicked smile, eyes slitted and malevolent, as the demonic sylph reached out with hungry claws for the armor-sheathed knight, a knight wearing the handsome, youthful visage Edmund had once worn.  I recoiled from the demented image.  Edmund laughed wildly at my pained look.  His laughter bubbled out of him; a mad, unhinged mirth.  He just stood there laughing and running his finger along her cheek, smudging the still damp paint.

There was no hope; Edmund was completely mad.  He had given his sanity over to intoxicants and this fantasy woman watching me from a thousand painted eyes.  As I turned to leave, I heard his soft whisper.

"She has me, Dorian.  There is no escape, for she has me, unredeemably, unrepentantly, and utterly in her thrall."

So shocked was I, I did not even voice the quip that immediately rose to mind, that she also had him alliteratively and somewhat redundantly in her thrall.  Instead, I simply walked out, leaving the door hanging open, and headed home.

It was the last I ever saw of him – crooning affections to his own creation, truly _la belle dame sans merci_ _(4)_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) From Robert Burns' Tam o'Shanter,___

_                                                      "Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,  
                                                       Gathering her brows like gathering storm,  
                                                       Nursing her wrath to keep it warm",___

_(2)  A pieta is any depiction of  Mary holding the crucified body of Christ.___

_(3) –Or absinthe.___

_(4) Dorian is echoing Edmund's allusion to Keats' 'La Belle Dame sans Merci' – the beautiful lady with no mercy – wherein an evil faerie lures a young knight, seducing and, ultimately, killing him.  In her arms, he dreams, ___

_                                                    " I saw pale kings and princes too,___

_                                                        Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:___

_                                                        They cried, 'La belle Dame sans Merci___

_                                                        Hath thee in thrall!'"_


	7. The Unspeakable and the Uneatable

**Chapter 6 – The Unspeakable and Uneatable**

****

_The English gentlemen galloping in pursuit after a fox-_

_          the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable._

**_                        ~ Oscar Wilde_**

It should shame me to say that I left him there, in his lunacy, with his idol of paint and cloth, but in honesty, I did not feel I was deserting Edmund at all.  The man I saw that night bore no resemblance to the Edmund I had known and was, instead, a hollow creature, drained of his soul by this self-created lamia.  Besides, what did I know of madness or fevers of the mind?

I did not, however, desert him entirely.  He had no family to speak of and I contacted my personal physician, an exceptionally discreet man by the name of Dr. Reginald Burton.  He visited Edmund later that week and found him in much the same state.  It was clear Edmund was not fit to be by himself and Dr. Burton recommended a private sanitarium near St. Luke's.  There he would be cared for and, it was hoped, be returned to lucidity – for a price.  My name and connections, whispered in the right ears, were enough to secure him a place but the funds would be expected to follow shortly.  I gave all my time and energy during that first month to suitably arranging Edmund's finances, a daunting task considering how sparse they were.  Proper investments would yield enough to cover the bills but one first had to have something with which to speculate.

The flat was mine, which expedited the sale of its contents, but even that did not bring in enough.  As January drew to a close, I played my last card and hosted a grand feast at one of my better clubs, having accumulated a wide range of memberships over the years.  I invited the leading members of the London art scene and wooed them to my purpose.  The maneuver looked to pay off handsomely and a date was set towards the end of March for an exhibition of Edmund's works – an exhibition that I hoped would result in the quick sale of most of his pieces.  Madness among artists had come into to vogue with the Romantics and had, thankfully, yet to go out of fashion.  My guests were more intrigued by the sad tale of Edmund's delusion than his paintings – no matter, since their wagging tongues and gruesome fascination with anyone 'touched by the fire of the gods' would draw more sales than the most fervent praise of his skill.

It was this night, taking a turn around London, after tedious hours of plying the pretentious twits with equal amounts of wine and flattery, that I saw her, Edmund's pitiless muse.  I have never found a balm equal to the peaceful solitude of the dim interior of a carriage, where one can repose undisturbed by the flurry of the city.  I had signaled my driver to stop across from boisterous public house and was watching the denizens of the area come and go, their mindless revelry a comfort to me.  I have often said that the ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.  They can sit at their ease and gape at the play _(1)_.  I was, momentarily, put out to be neither ugly nor stupid, as it seemed a less demanding path.  

My reverie ended suddenly, for there she was, out for a late night stroll.  Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.  Finding the alley empty, I climbed back into my coach and simply watched for a bit.  She never reappeared but as I waited my mind had been working furiously.  If she was real, she had a name, a residence, and, one assumed, an entire life of some sort.  She had at least one 'beau', if one could call Lord Godalming that; perhaps she had others.  I would find out everything there was to know of this mysterious woman and, somewhere in that torrent of knowledge, I would find the key; and with it, I would destroy her.  While it was not entirely clear how she was involved with Edmund and his mental decline, she had clearly deprived me of an amusing camaraderie to which I had become accustomed.

I am never more content than when challenged somehow; the more difficult the endeavor, the greater diversion yielded.  Unraveling this little mystery – the mysterious muse turned lamia – would, I hoped, pass the time until the season began _(2)_.  Over the years, I had learned well the vital importance of friends not only in high places but most especially those in lower places.  I called upon the services of some men adept at unearthing information, no matter how confidential or obscure.  Besides their skill, I also had the distinct advantage of dozens upon dozens of depictions of my quarry, though it was rather unlikely she was stealthily creeping about London costumed as a Medieval lady.  Choosing a few miniatures and simpler sketches, I set them on her trail, like hounds after a fox.

The initial reports were so rapid and detailed, I feared my entertainment would be ended before it had properly begun.  'Thalia' turned up at public houses and taverns all over the East End – often dressed as a domestic and rarely alone. While this seemed a rather odd way for a Lord's fancy to pass an evening, it paled in the light of later revelations.  Edmund's little muse seemed in search of some inspiration herself – flitting in and out of well known 'parlors' providing a sampling of some more unusual vapors to their clientele, mostly men of moderate station, who, my trackers reported, seemed all too familiar with the auburn-tressed beauty in their midst.  One of my trackers brought back a tidbit so outlandish I accused him of drunkenness, unwilling, indeed, unable to accept his report.  It was not until a few weeks later, when a second man came with the same tale, that I cursed my good fortune.  Was this woman really deserving of the diligent and focused attention of someone as skilled at social ruin as myself?  Why dirty one's hands with the whole affair if she was going to meekly place her own head in the guillotine?  But there she was, profoundly reckless, brazenly imprudent, not once but twice, spotted in the Chapel, done up as a common chickster****_(3)_!  Yet even in her flaunting she was enigmatic.  She was everywhere but still nameless, without a family, home or even a true profession.  I remembering thinking perhaps there was still some pleasure to be had in watching the fox display her wiles and skill, knowing that in the end all was futility, for the hounds would inevitably bring her down and devour her.

****

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) A direct quote from Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray.  _

_(2) – i.e. the London Social season, staring, with a trickle of events, as early as April and in full swing by May._

_(3) Or, in modern American English, in the Whitechapel district, prostituting herself._


	8. Fate, or Something Very Like

**A.N.**_Thanks as always to Foxfire for the beta – Don't know what I would do without you!  A special thanks to Vix and Angela over at LXG Fanfic for the quick responses when I sent out a distress call.  It is amazing how quickly details fade from the memory!_****

****

**Chapter 7  - Fate, or Something Very Like **

It would seem, to a less discerning mind, that the woman was doomed.  But she always a sly one; formidable in her apparent vulnerability.  I was reminded of it anew that first evening with the 'Gentlemen', amid the ruin of my library.  My half-listening, covering my surreptitious study of the beauty perching on the arm of my chair, was abruptly halted as the conversation of M's little band gathered before me turned to what I could contribute to their little group.  I am sure Nemo meant the question sarcastically and therefore shouldn't have been surprised at my terse but honest answer of "Experience".  Oh I would give anything to have captured the look that flitted across Mina's face.  It was mentioned that Alan and I had met before, at Eton.  Mina suggested a tableau of a schoolboy gazing in awe at the hero returning from his adventures.  Mr. Quartermain conceded this was not far off, only he was the schoolboy in question.  For a moment, the mask Mina always hid behind slipped and she wore such a look of discomfiture.  A hundred questions must have rushed through her mind, all possible variations of 'How?' and 'What?', but a breath later she had quelled it all into a look of polite inquiry.  She was never more alluring than in those rare moments of confronting something utterly unexpected.  

Was it that ephemeral vulnerability that first lured me?  Or perhaps it was only seductive in its scarcity?  In remembering what was to follow such a circuitous beginning, mad painters and bloodhounds scouring the city, it is almost miraculous our story happened at all.  I want to attribute it all to Fate or something very like it, some grand force of destiny.  Then again, perhaps Emerson is right – that fate is a name, a superstitious nomenclature, for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought _(1)_, but I have to believe, I want to believe that there were forces larger than ourselves that drew us together for some purpose.  

Thinking back on it, we might have gone on like that forever, I the gentlemen watching the blood sport with a measure of disinterest from atop a mighty hunter, while my hounds nipped at her heels.  After nearly two months of chase, I was no closer to gaining any concrete lead.  With March well under way, I received unexpected news that jolted me out of my languid surveillance.   Edmund had come to them so physically weakened that his doctors despaired of preserving his body long enough to restore his mind.  Suspecting some lingering poisonous intoxicant, they bled him heavily but this course of treatment seemed only to weaken him further.  It was suspected that he had tried to do himself harm in those weeks he was alone with his delusion for he had deep lacerations and punctures on his throat and chest.  Soothing poultices and salves did nothing and, as he weakened these wounds reopened, festering and paining him greatly.  After much struggling to save him, _animus_ and _corpus_, he slipped into a sleep from which he never awoke.  Upon receiving word of his death, I determined this 'merry chase' would end; I would have answers or, at least, the satisfaction of spilling some blood.

I waited until well after nightfall and drove the streets she was known to haunt.  My resolve did not waver when I was unsuccessful that first night and the diligence paid off the fourth night.  There, in a dark corner, deep in bowels of the East End, amid all its fetid vileness, was 'Thalia', charms on display, huddled under a dim gas lamp with a few true street women.  I opened the carriage window and called to her.

"You there, Thalia…"

Her eyes turned in my direction and she began slowly edging back into the shadows.  Her apparent aversion to attracting undue attention was her undoing.  I was out of the coach, pushing roughly through the crowd of bleating whores, falling over themselves in their attempt to secure a bit of the wealth my apparel and transport bespoke, and had a firm grip on her arm before she could vanish, as she had proven so adept at.

"Oh no you don't." I scolded tightening my hold.  "A word with you, _Mademoiselle_?"

Her eyes flashed and she tugged her elbow free.  " 'ey now, Lemme be.  You ain't me ponce._(2)_"

"You gots no eyes, do you?" one of the crowd shrieked."'e's a real gent – look at 'em togs.  Lottie 'ere'll show 'im a nice time, if you're bung-eyed noddle."

Ignoring the offer, as tempting as it wasn't, I addressed her again.  

"Don't insult my intelligence with more of that Cockney cant _(3)_.  Your accent is abysmal and even that – inventive - _couture_ doesn't mask your breeding.  You're no star gazer _(4)_, now are you?" I reclaimed her arm and steered her, despite her resistance, towards the carriage.  

"Why don't we have a little chat; about well-to-do Lords? And commissioned paintings?"  Her face remained a blank mask of incomprehension.  Speaking softly into her ear, I continued.  "And about your clandestine turn as Edmund's own dear lamia."

I felt her stiffen for a moment and a paler, much stiller woman alighted the steps of my coach, disappearing within.  Wishing the now sulking ladies _adieu_ with a bow, I bid my man to drive on and prepared to confront my captive.  I doubt either of us suspected at that moment that something momentous was about to occur, that a single conversation was about to change everything.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**__**

_(1) The exact quote is from Ralph Waldo Emerson's "The Conduct of Life".  "Fate, then, is the name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought; for causes which are yet unpenetrated."  _

_(2) Translations for the 19th century slang impaired (i.e. the vast majority of us):  A ponce is a pimp.  Togs are clothes.  Bung-eyed refers to being intoxicated and someone who is noddle is stupid._

_(3) Dorian is actually confusing two different dialects of slang spoken by the lowest classes of London society._

_(4) A particularly picturesque moniker for prostitutes referencing, one assumes, the vista a talented girl would most frequently see.___


	9. The Turning Point

**Chapter 8 – The Turning Point**

She said nothing as the carriage rolled on into the night.  I studied this woman who had come from nowhere and suddenly disarranging my life.  A young woman, not more than five and twenty, I estimated, even taking into account the flattering tendencies of dim lamplight.  She had a fine and supple form, barely concealed by the minute corset and threadbare skirt enrobing it. Worn but dainty boots peeped from beneath tattered petticoats, which spilled across the plush seat as she settled herself, pulling her skirts higher and crossing her legs to expose a garter of claret velvet holding up one of her dark stockings.  Slim fingers pulled off the netted gloves, laying them across her lap.  A quiet cough ended my meditation and my eyes quickly took in an elegant throat accentuated by a dark ribbon choker, soft russet curls tumbling from a precarious upsweep and that face that had become all too familiar.  None of the depictions had managed capture the expression she wore, a most peculiar blend of annoyance and amusement.

"So - you are an acquaintance of Edmund's, Mr. - " She let the question hang between us.

"Mr. Gray.  Dorian Gray."  I supplied with a polite nod.  "And you are - "

"Interested to know why I was accosted and now find myself being spirited into the night by a strange gentlemen." 

I was not expecting such deft conversational maneuvering or such an intelligent retort– she was most definitely not a true streetwalker. I tried another tack.

"You keep an interesting social circle, or should I say circles, for a - _friend_ - of a Lord as affluent as Lord Godalming."

Her lips twisted into a flicker of a smile. "I suppose I do."

"I would think a man such as him would be interested to know your whereabouts – not to mention your choice of escorts."

"Perhaps.  Is that your intention, to accuse me to him?" she asked, her voice a calm purr.

"It could be – amusing," _For me - and dangerous, perhaps even deadly, for you_, I thought, watching for any trace of fear.  My hopes were dashed by her soft chuckle.

"Unquestionably it would be amusing – highly amusing."  Her eyes narrowed and she studied me, as if taking my measure.  "But not, I suspect, for you."

Here she paused and continued with a benign smile "For you would find the accuser turned, in short order, to the accused.  Do not, however, let me squelch your enthusiasm.  I ask only to be informed of the hour at which the entertainment will commence."

"You mean for me to believe that he knows of your nocturnal engagements?  Are you telling me he is indifferent as to your conduct?"  I mockingly asked.  Effected bravado had failed to save women more wily than her but she answered this challenge.

"I am telling you - simply stated - that you have misjudged the situation.  I am not a rich man's fancy.  As for him - " she continued in the indulgent tone one uses with children or simpletons, "He knows – a great deal more and about a great many more things, than you seem to.  Was that your aim? Blackmail?"

She spat out her final question with a venom worthy of my own views on the practice. Even more grating, her poise never wavered, her greenish eyes scrutinizing my reaction with the same intensity I had employed not a moment before. Clearly this tack was not working either.  Deliberately mirroring her composed façade, I started again.

"My aim, as you put it, is to understand why someone so _dear_ to both a affluent Lord and an impoverished painter deserted them both to wander the streets."

She bristled at this.  "I did not desert Edmund.  Who are you, that you censure me – accuse me – of desertion, of being a lamia?"

"Let's just say I am – that I _was_ - a friend and business associate of Edmund's. A sort of sponsor."

"Was?" she pounced on the word. "What have you done to him? He hasn't been back to his studio in months."

"Funny – I intended to ask you the same thing.  He was in a private sanitarium.  He, he went mad – ranting until the very end about his beloved muse.  Why did you not return to him?  After you were his, after you had him and gained his love?"  I asked pointedly, once again turning the focus to her.  "He never recovered from the delusion or his feeble health.  Quite simply, he went mad, lost in your enchantment, longing for your return and killing himself with intoxicants and self-mutilation.  He is dead - Dead.  So I ask you, what have _you_ done to him?"

Shaken by my vehemence, she fell silent, wilting before me and staring blankly down at her hands.  Her words, when they came, were bare whispers, directed more to herself than me.

"Dead? Driven mad?" she shook her head.  "No – No, he was not so weak, so fragile.  To shatter his mind, drain his soul, I didn't – No -  " the sighed denials holding no conviction.  To me she said sorrowfully, "I am sorry.  Edmund – he was a man of rare talent.  His death is a great loss."

"Sorry?" I sneered.  "Well, that changes everything."  She was mistaken if she thought a few tears and moment of contrition was going to end this.

The change was immediate.  Meeting my hostile glare, she smoothed her features back into that blank mask and returned the glare with one of her own.  She straightened, her posture hardening from the broken, repentant form she had presented not a moment before.  Every trace of remorse vanished and the slight clench of her jaw gave her a diffident, almost frosty, bearing.

"Enough of this," she gave a dismissive wave.  "All that still does not explain why we are sitting here.  Or why you, and I must assume it was you, have had men following me about.   They are not nearly as stealthy as they believe themselves to be.  So - " she unflinchingly held my gaze, "What, exactly, is it that you want?"

"Yes, enough of this meandering talk. Let's get right to it. What do I want? Exactly?"  I paused, clenching my cane, resisting the urge to kill her right then and there.  She had to be the most infuriating woman I had ever encountered.  "I want your head, neatly on a platter, by my hand.  Edmund deserved better than you. You aren't, as you said, a rich man's fancy.  You, my dear, are a whore – a well-connected, not easily threatened or discarded whore – but a whore nonetheless.  I want to ruin you, plague you, dog your every moment – until you regret it all – Edmund, your impudence, and the very day you were born."

She gave a tiny smile as I called her a whore and it only grew broader and more malicious.  I knew as I spoke that I was showing too much, giving full vent to my anger.  That smile and the sudden glitter in her eyes gave the distinct impression that I had just made a very serious mistake.

"Ah, at last we get to the heart of the matter.  A whore, Mr. Gray?" she paused for a moment before closing in for the kill. "Or an unwelcome, vexingly favored rival?" She ignored my sharp intake of breath and continued.

"I spoke nothing but the truth to you, though I may have tinkered a bit with the emotion.  I am sorry about Edmund.  I am not a whore or some pampered mistress.  And you," her chuckle sent a chill through me, "have _badly_ misjudged the situation.  I suspected who you were, who was shadowing my every step, long before tonight.  I wondered when you would confront me.  I knew, from comments Edmund made, that you were not a man to take rejection well or be denied your petty little vengeance. So I knew you well enough, and anticipated your coming, even if I did not know your name.   But you generously provided that, didn't you? Such a gentleman," she crooned, flashing a truly wicked smirk before continuing.

"It comes down to this; an artistic genius Edmund was, discreet he was not.  There are journals, Mr. Gray.  Exhaustively detailed journals you would not wish to be made public."

That was absurd! Edmund knew better than that  - didn't he? Regardless, there was only one way to play this. "That was a pathetic ploy," I scoffed.  "You're lying. There are no journals, nor any scandal to spread."

"I am sure you wish that were true."  The smirk became a truly predatory grin and she proceded with a flood of details – of evenings long past, of trips to the country and – without so much as a blush –details of a personal nature she really had no business knowing, let alone saying out loud.  It took all my will not to gape at her.  Or rip her throat out – both in anger and to end her shameless, and emotionless, recitation before I disgraced myself by blushing.

Mercifully she ceased, smiling sweetly. "Edmund really should have been a writer – it provided evenings of fascinating and quite educational reading."  She cleared her throat and continued in a less teasing tone.  

"As I said, there ARE journals.  I have them, safely in the hands of solicitors.  And - before you even think it – the journals are not all being kept at their office nor does any one of them know the locations of all the journals.  So midnight burgling, kidnapping or even torture would be of no avail."

"What – _exactly_ – do _you_ want?" I asked through clenched teeth.  "Is blackmail _your_ aim?"

"No, no." she laughed.  "I really have no patience for illicit acts as mundane as blackmail.  What I want – and it is so simple, Mr. Gray – what I want, is for you to call off your hounds.  Forget you saw me and leave me in peace.  When our paths cross again, and I think they will, forget you ever met me before that day.  That is it, that is all I want."

"And if I don't, you ruin me?"

"Yes, I could ruin you - if you are lucky.  If you are not so lucky, you and all your little hounds might find you have cornered a tiger in fox's guise."  

The menace in her voice was ridiculous coming from such a tiny woman.  The conversation had ceased to be at all amusing. I was supposed to be threatening her.  With a low snarl, I released the clasp keeping the sword concealed within my cane, unsheathing the blade in mere seconds.  

But not quickly enough, for an instant later I found myself pinned to my seat, my sword on the floor near her seat and my hand throbbing from the swift kick that had disarmed me.  I wriggled my fingers experimentally, testing that nothing was damaged, and brushed a stockinged knee.  It was then I fully realized my position - the woman was actually astride me, layers of petticoats bunched in my lap, with a blade pressed to my throat.  Somehow, as I drew my sword, she had leapt across the interior of the carriage, disarmed me, and produced a dagger from depths of her cleavage – her quite distracting cleavage which, incidentally, was now entirely filling my field of vision.  A deep growl from somewhere above me refocused my attention on the _face_ of my attacker – her teeth bared and eyes almost red with rage.  I was disturbed to find myself thinking that she was really quite stunning.

"Again, you misjudged – quite badly." She hissed.  Looking at the thin trickle of blood from beneath her blade, she wet her lips and murmured seductively,  "Your heart is racing, Mr. Gray.  Are you afraid to die?"

The twists and turns of this whole encounter were impossible to follow but trying to keep up was proving stimulating.  How had she moved that fast?  Who _was_ this woman who had me – ME – at knifepoint?  And how on earth was I supposed to come up with an urbane response while being nearly smothered?

Luckily, I had not squandered my immortality and had, in all honesty, been in far more unexpected - and indecent - circumstances than this.  With a little squirming, I was able to free my still smarting hand from the bit of petticoat trim my cuff had become entangled in, while I boldly looked this radiant valkyrie right in the eye.

"Now I think it is you who have misjudged," my voice a bewitching, low velvety tone. "My heart is racing," her eyes widened in a most satisfying look of discomfiture as she felt a caress along the bare flesh above her garter, "but it has nothing to do with fear."

She squirmed away from my touch but succeed only in wiggling about delightfully as she refused to lessen the pressure of the blade on my throat.  Clenching her teeth, she ignored the unintended consequences of her actions and forced her features back into a harsh glare, though not without a visible effort.

"Really, Mr. Gray." 

Her indignant tone had no effect on my grin and, with a somewhat exasperated sigh, she lifted most of her weight out of my lap.  "Signal your driver to stop."

I did as she watched with a most enchanting expression – as if she too was rather confused as to how we had ended up in this position.  As soon as the carriage slowed, she had kicked open the door, never slackening the press of blade to flesh, and paused to scowl at me one last time.

"This ends now.  Leave me be and I will leave you be.  If not -"she paused meaningfully and then leapt out into the night.  She was, of course, long gone by the time I looked out.  We had stopped at a nondescript shadowy crossroad somewhere in London.  The dwellings were not unusually shabby, nor the stench of rot and sewage overwhelming, so I surmised we had crossed the Thames at some point during our little tête-à-tête. 

I might have stood there for hours, staring into the night, letting my mind tumble over the events. It was as if I was hoping that, through repeated mediation, a death threat, mingled with a little coquetry, would suddenly become the logical conclusion to the preceding events.  Luckily, my man spoke up, voice heavy with concern.  "Sir?  Are we headed back to Melmoth then?"

"Yes. Home," I answered, alighting and slamming the door closed behind me.  Her gloves had fallen to the floor in the attack.  I retrieved them, along with my sword. Staring at those tiny netted gloves, something in me was stirred.  She was amazing, all vitriol and sass, with a spine of unshakable determination lurking beneath those curves.  What a devious little mind – and the gall to actually try to murder a gentleman in his own coach, with his man just inches away guiding the horses.  She was utterly unlike anyone, man or woman, I had ever encountered. It had been ages since anyone effectively threatened me; no dared or had the necessary cunning.  She was vicious when cornered, but in an icy, calculated way that reminded me, quite frankly, of me. As we neared home, I made a disturbing discovery. As annoyed and infuriated as I was her, the anger was not strong enough to obscure the truth. She had bested me, even threatened to kill me, and, yet, there I was, rather taken with her.

**A.N.:** _I must admit I have committed a very large writer's sin here…I have fallen in love with my own story.  I can't help it.  This scene popped into my mind, almost exactly as it appears here, not more than 20 seconds after I got the idea that it might be fun to write a Mina/Dorian story.  This is why a beta is an essential step in writing – to keep the author honest about the quality of their work.  Still, it was fun, wasn't it? amused smirk_


	10. A Sticky Wicket

**Chapter 9 – A Sticky Wicket**

I spent many hours of the days that followed shut in my study, glass in hand, watching the flames dance in the grate, and planning my next moves.  Nothing had come of the confrontation; less than nothing really, as I still did not know her name or the first thing about her.  In the end, I could find no alternative but to acquiesce to her demands.  I called off my hounds, generously compensated them and sent them on their way.  All but one, for yielding and surrendering are two very different things and only a fool would surrender when yielding will suffice.  With new vigor, I arranged a meeting with my prize hunter, Mr. Bly, in a private room at the one London club so shrouded in silence that one could practically commit murder without fear of discovery.  In fact, the members were so loyal and tightlipped as to the activities of their fellows that one could literally strangle a man on the billiards table and no one would say a word, but that was, as I had assured my fellow members, a rather singular occurrence.  I carefully instructed Mr. Bly as to the circumstances of his continued employment and, after securing a satisfactory account of his plans, set him back onto her trail.  

I was not surprised when weeks passed with no report, as this undertaking would need to progress far more cautiously than the last.  The showing of Edmund's work was a brilliant success.  I could not bring myself to cancel it, even after Edmund's passing, and I was well rewarded with the sale of every piece exhibited, even that hideous final painting.  I had kept a few pieces I found particularly inspired, most _sans_ Thalia, aside from one enchanting work with her as an angelic Selene watching her beloved slumber – a beloved that, for once, bore no resemblance to Edmund.  Endymion's brown locks, falling in tousled disarray over a pale forehead, framing heavily lashed lids that I suspected concealed rich brown eyes instead of the sparkling blue of Edmund's later heroes.  Lying peaceful in his field, he bore more than a passing resemblance to me, as had so many others before that regrettable commission.  It humored me to see her gazing devotedly down at him, and at me, each day from her place near my bed.  

I had, however, little time for daydreaming, as the Season had at last begun.  The invitations poured in – to concerts, suppers and balls.  Most I declined, but each year there were a few outstanding events that required my presence.  All of society was anxiously anticipating the annual _fête_ in Kew Gardens.  The Duke and Duchess of Denver (1) presented a more elaborate spectacle each year, the gardens made private for the day and filled with every manner of fashionable entertainment, culminating in a late afternoon tea unrivaled for the rest of the season.  Those uninvited would be excluded from the best events all season, and more than one family, teetering on the cusp of true society, waited hopefully for their invitation to arrive. That year was not disappointing – it was certainly an event to remember.

The long ride out of London was tiresome as always, but the first sight of the festivities, of the carriages lined up outside the Victoria Gate, their occupants streaming into the gardens in little groups, revived me.  I entered and found the gardens a flurry of activity – all manner of lawn games taking place, musicians tucked out of sight providing soft music, and everywhere the dance of society and influence going on in deadly earnest.  Servants, dressed in the showy livery of the Marseilles court, circulated among the usual clusters of society men, deep in their discussions of the latest happenings of Parliament and trying to avoid the society mothers prowling about, with maiden daughters in tow.  Each new arrival was scrutinized surreptitiously by the dozens of doting mothers; if male, to assess his standing and prospects; if female, to take the measure of the competition.  This aspect of the Season never failed to bore me; for, every season, at least a few mothers were convinced, despite my whispered infamy and best efforts to prove the whispers true, that I was a most promising match for their graceless, homely country-bred darlings; or, even worse, their titled, vapid and alarmingly equine offspring.  I made it a habit to become immediately and deeply engrossed in conversation, with whoever happened to be handy, at the first sign of a determined _m__êre settling her attention on me.  The first hour had gone quite well when suddenly the strolling crowds parted just as I ended a conversation, leaving me exposed to the most celebrated matchmaker and detested busybody of them all, the Young Lady Brandon (2)._

She swooped down upon me before I could find means of escape, escorting me with a strength surprising for her age, towards a group of ladies watching croquet.  I noted the perfectly arranged ensembles; the young ladies with parasols, gloves and hats all coordinated to their frocks, and the older, a mix of chaperones and mothers, in equally fashionable if less showy garb.   _At least the women of the aristocracy knew disinterest when they saw it_, I thought with a tiny measure of relief.  They laughed at some private joke, probably a bit of gossip about one of those playing croquet, as we approached.  One rich laugh stood out from the rest, falling suddenly silent as we joined the group.  Lady Brandon began the introductions but I heard none of her prattling.  I had looked towards the source of that resonant mirth and met a familiar face wearing a quite unfamiliar expression of surprise.  She recovered quickly, and I turned back to Lady Brandon's introductions with a rare focus, lavishing my charm upon each pair in turn, as Lady Brandon provided a litany of the most trivial facts about each girl's lineage and family history.  Having finally exhausted her supply of minutiae, we came to stand before the woman I had furtively watched all along.

"Mr. Gray.  May I present Mrs. Harker, a dear friend of the Godalmings."  

_Mrs. Harker – Mrs.? _ I am sure that despite my best efforts my eyebrow arched ever so slightly as I bent to kiss the offered hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harker."  Catching her eye as I straightened, I watched with some amusement as she fought to hide a tiny smile.  Since the introductions had so conveniently ended with her, I stayed at her side as the others resumed watching croquet.  We played our indifference well, ignoring each other but not in an obvious manner.  Polite conversation is never a mentally taxing exercise for one of any intelligence and, as my own attention wandered, I noticed her watching another game intently, though she never failed to contribute a witty or astute remark to the chatter around us.  The game she was watching, a few courts over, was proving more dramatic by the minute.  A young gentleman was losing, quite intentionally, to one of the young women playing.  He was careful not to disturb her ball and, when he did, always took the extra shot.  She, in turn, was regarding his smiles and encouragements coolly, but not coolly enough, for he continued his little flirtations.  The drama reached its height as she, with a well placed shot, knocked into his ball.  He smiled warmly at her, no doubt asking for mercy.  She smiled just as warmly as she walked over, placing one dainty foot on her ball, and knocked his ball out of the game and into the next.  The look on his face as he watched it roll out of bounds was only made more amusing by the smug smile his beloved gave as she watched him scramble after it.  I caught Mrs. Harker's eye, noting the glint of amusement.  Seeing my amused smirk, she actually gave me a tiny smile.  The mother standing on her right must have seen it as well and made a little tutting sound.  "Poor boy – that was certainly an obvious rebuff."  Her sympathy was short-lived as the game the rest were watching ended, freeing the court, and the ladies, her daughter included, moved onto the lawn.

"Mrs. Harker – will you join us in a game?" one of the young women offered.

"No, thank you.  All this sun has made me a bit weary.  I think I'll find a seat in the shade, until the tea begins.  Mr. Gray, do you mind?" she turned to me expectantly.  

"It would be my pleasure.  Shall we?"  I offered her my arm and we started back towards Palm House, the jewel of Kew and the perfect backdrop for the tea tents.  

We strolled in silence, her arm in mine.  As we moved away from the croquet courts and up the Broad Walk, I ventured an opening remark.

"So we have met properly—just as you predicted."

"Indeed." Her tone was carefully nonchalant, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

She was so proper, maintaining the perfect distance between us, carrying herself like a duchess – I had to tease her.

"You are quite the lady today.  Well, except for your wicked glee at that poor boy being publicly snubbed."  I kept my tone light, hoping for an equal response, but her voice was icily flat.

"He was a fool to make so open a move."  

Silence over took us again until I could no longer resist trying again and asking the obvious question.

"_Mrs._ Harker is it? Intriguing.  How does _Mr._ Harker fit into all this?"

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled innocently.  "He doesn't."

I was beginning to learn one would be wise to worry when favored with that innocent smile of hers, but as I had already asked the question, I pressed on.  "He doesn't? And how is that?"

"He's dead—quite dead." she answered mildly.  

_Well.  It was an answer, but not one that fostered further inquiry._  We turned towards Palm House, the quietness disturbed only by the crunch of our steps.  This was going nowhere.  With a sigh, I tried one last time.  "A wise man once called silence an ornament for women.  Are you deliberately adorning yourself thus or are you simply vexed with me?"

At last she turned toward me, giving me a genuine smile.  "A much wiser man said 'A witty saying proves nothing'." (3) 

Her warm tone eased the sting of yet another triumph at my expense.  "_Touché_, Mrs. Harker." 

"In answer to your query, I am rather vexed with you, although I must thank you, Mr. Gray, for honoring at least _part_ of our agreement.  That was masterfully done back there." 

Pleased to hear the teasing note with which she scolded me, I continued in the same vein.  "Vexed, really? And what do you mean, _part_ of our agreement?"  

We had drawn near to the tents set up for the tea.  People had begun settling themselves at the tables and before she could answer Lady Godalming turned and saw us approaching.  Her face tightened into a frown and she turned to say something to Lord Godalming.  Turning to look, he too frowned and, excusing himself from the conversation, started towards us.  She slipped her arm away from mine and offered her hand in farewell.

"Thank you for escorting me.  I should go."  She looked towards the approaching figure as I again kissed her hand.  Her hand clasped mine a bit longer than proper and I could feel her press something into my palm.  

As she turned to go, she glanced one last time towards me, looking directly into my eyes, and said in a soft, sober voice,  "And Mr. Gray—I think you know exactly what I meant."

Lord Godalming called out to her as she neared him.  "Mina, there you are.  Come, join us."  

He drew her arm through his protectively, glancing back towards me. He threw me a final glare as he steered her towards his table.  As she rejoined them, I opened my fist and confirmed, sadly, that I had known exactly what she had meant.  I had ignored her warning and lost yet again.  There in my palm lay the pocket watch I had given Mr. Bly as reward for his excellent previous work; I could always depend on him for both results and discretion.  The face of the watch had been smashed and, turning it over, a dark stain filled the furrows of the engraving across the back, casting the words into stark relief.  _Well done, good and faithful servant __(4)._

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_In reference to the title, when else was I going to get to use an obscure bit of croquet slang?_

_(1) Given the time period this would have to be the 15th Duke of Denver, Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey and his wife, Honoria Lucasta Delagardie Wimsey, who appear here on loan from Dorothy Sayers._

_(2) Here referred to as the 'Young' Lady Brandon to distinguish her from her mother, the previously most detested busybody of them all prior to her retirement from a long and successful hobby of making young women happy and young men miserable or matchmaking, as it is more commonly known.  The elder Lady Brandon owes her fame, but none of her infamy, to Oscar Wilde._

_(3) The wise man was Sophocles; the wiser man, Voltaire.   ___

_(4) A slight rewording of Matthew 25:21.___


	11. A Mantle of Humility

**Author's Note: **And as always, Foxfire1 I could not do it without you.  Who else would slog through this and help me smack the punctuation into submission?  Some day you really are going to have to see this flick!

Also, to my dear, dear Mish – thanks sooo much for all the back edits.  I have gone through and reposted all the cleaned up chapters.  It's great to have two anal retentive, I mean focused grammarians on my side.  Did I ever properly thank you for listening to me rave on about wanting to write this fic?  Wish we could have more of those discussions – in person – rather than being glued to our phones for hours.  Gracias! Merci! Danke! Спасибо! 

**Chapter 10 – A Mantle of Humility **__

I held that watch, running my fingers over the deep lines of the etching, flipping it through my fingers, all the way back to London. Studying the dark marks on the back of the watch I wondered, _Had she killed Bly? Or had she simply persuaded him to make himself scarce?_  One thing was certain; I had missed my chance for surrender.  I could only hope I had not irreparably offended the lady – for now she held both my interest and my reputation securely in her power.  While I was greatly enjoying our encounters, it had occurred to me that she did not seem to be as amused.  Even more unusual, I found I was actually concerned about her perception of the game we were playing.  While charmingly talented at wielding words, fashioning them to her purpose, she had given me no reason to doubt her words.  She clearly stated her demands, set consequences, and, unless her gift was a bold bluff, followed through on her threats.  Thus far, I had fiercely countered her every attempt to control the situation, ignoring her warnings and striking a tenuous balance between wooing and actively baiting the woman.  _Fool! Brash, prideful fool!_ Almost every move I had made was a false step.  Somehow I needed to regain control of this situation, but devising a means of reclaiming my power, while subtly presenting a benign front to draw her in, was not proving easy.  Perhaps it would be best to forego direct contact for the moment.  We seemed to unconsciously abrade each other with our very miens.  What was needed was a gesture on my part, a show of robing myself in remorse and humility. A letter would serve, if carefully written. Arriving back at Melmoth, I set about crafting a missive that would both calm and entice this delectably inscrutable _femme_.  

Discovering her place of residence was easy enough; a simple query sent through the proper channels produced an address.  Staring in frustration at the blank sheet in front of me, I decided to begin with the obvious.

_                             21st of April, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                             Mrs. Harker_

_                             Carfax_

_                             Piccadilly at Half-Moon_

_                             Madame,_

An hour passed and I was no further along.  Every innate instinct bristled at her threats, a deep part of me craving a blood price.  If she were a man, I would simply call for a duel and meet the provocation directly and honorably, or as honorably as an immortal can truly be in provoking a dual.  Then again, if she were a man, I would not be frustrating myself trying to decipher the serpentine convolutions of the feminine mind or searching for a way to turn this acrimonious vigor into a more ravening fire.  _Damnation—this was impossible!_  Apologies made me rather nauseous.  All that groveling, the obsequious pandering, and there was the matter of my relative inexperience at making them.  Realizing myself to be somewhat inadequate to the task, I set about doing some research.  Browsing through my collection, I happened upon the perfect source.  Careful review of the text and ample liquid fortification restored my confidence.  Now the only question was how would the Vicomte de Valmont handle this? (1)

_Please accept my humblest apologies.  Your orders were charming; your manner of giving them still more amiable __(2). And yet I disregarded them, or at least, did not show full confidence in either the sincerity or gravity of your command. The error is entirely mine and I can only hope I have not alienated you by my obstinance**.** _

A little more genuflecting should be sufficient and I carefully considered my next words.

_I submit myself entirely to your authority, as you hold all the cards, and await the consequence of my disregard.  Will you be a merciful mistress or I am to go the way of my humble servant before me?  About Mr. Bly, if I may venture an inquiry, should I assume he will not be returning?  He had a sister to whom he occasionally sent funds.  If his departure is of a permanent nature, I should like to settle my debts to him with his kin._

Pleased with my efforts thus far, I endeavored to end with the proper lure.  But first there was the matter of an appropriate reparatory gesture.  __

_I have taken the liberty of returning that which you left behind during our twilight ride.  I await your response eagerly, that I may be given the opportunity to make recompense for my earlier lapse in manners.  _

_Dorian Gray_

The hour was late when I finally finished and I set the letter aside, intending to review it one last time the next day.  

Sipping my morning tea, I reviewed my handiwork with some measure of satisfaction.  Deciding it to be perfection, I summoned a footman and sent it along immediately.

A young lad arrived just as I was leaving for a late tea with an old friend.  Tipping him generously, I sent him on his way.  After we had gotten well underway, I settled back and opened the letter; a wise course of action as I did not wish to have to explain why I was laughing like a madman.

_22nd of April, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_Mr. Dorian Gray_

_Melmoth House_

_Monsignor,_

_Believe me when I express the surprise with which I received your epistle.  I must thank you, for  it could not have been more amusing, not even if it had been sincere.  My orders were charming indeed.  Am I to reply "Do you realize your letter is extremely insolent and I ought to be angry with you" __(3)? _

_Your dubious candor aside, I acknowledge the gesture.  As to your inquiry about your servant, you would be correct in making restitution to his sister.  My thanks to you, for the return of my gloves.  I would like to give the matter of acceptable recompense some thought.   Until next we meet, I leave you with a thought by a man I am sure you would have been quite fond of.  He wrote,_

_"Humility is often merely feigned submissiveness assumed in order to subject others, an artifice of pride which stoops to conquer, and although pride has a thousand ways of transforming itself it is never so well disguised and able to take people in as when masquerading as humility." __(4)_

_Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) An interesting choice of guide.  Few others would select 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' as the authoritative source for crafting a sincere communiqué._

_(2) An almost direct quote from Letter IV of the above mentioned work._

_(3) A direct quote from Letter V, the Marquise's response to the letter Dorian 'borrowed' from._

_(4) Maxim number 254, the source of which will become apparent at a later time.___


	12. History Lessons

**_A.N:_**_ This might be a bit of review for those of you familiar with Dracula.  But fear not, there is enough tinkering with history that even you will not be bored.  As always, I own nothing and am merely embellishing the timeline and events provided by Stoker._

**Chapter 11 – History Lessons**

Lord Henry Wotton had a surprisingly robust laugh for a man of almost eighty, which swelled and echoed in the confines of his teak-paneled study.  He gasped for breath, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief.  

"Good Lord, Dorian.  You'll be the death of me yet," he gasped, one hand pressed to his chest.  "I haven't heard anything so funny in ages." 

"I'm so pleased I could amuse you," I responded dryly.  Lord Henry was my oldest friend and, really, my only friend.  I had trusted him with my life, even my darkest secrets, since we were both young men.  He had proved an invaluable acquaintance during my first season and the life-changing events at its conclusion.  I was always glad when the new Season began for it heralded the return of Lord Henry and his family to London.  I had just finished telling him what little I knew of this Mrs. Harker.  He had nearly tumbled from his chair, shaking with laughter, as I detailed that most interesting conversation in my carriage.  He seemed to find the death threat especially hilarious.  Though, judging by his reaction, he found the latest development was no less amusing.  The tears of his laughter had obscured his vision to the extent that he had ultimately given up trying to read her response, making me read it aloud for him, repeatedly, since his laughter drowned out every other word.  Now, at the end of the tale, he was slowly recovering while I waited patiently.

"I never thought I would see the day," he finally said, regaining his breath.  He paused for a healthy swallow of whisky and fixed me with a serious gaze.  He always won these contests of will and, unable to guess to what he was referring, I surrendered first, waving for him to continue.  "I do believe that you have finally met your match."

I nearly dropped my glass.  "What!  Met my match?" I spluttered.

Giving me that annoyingly knowing look I had seen all to often over the last sixty years, he continued, as though I had not just misted both him and everything around him with a very nicely aged vintage.  "Exactly what I said, You have met your match, your equal even—and in Wilhelmina Harker of all people.  Wonders never cease!"  

He said the last with such conviction and sincerity, I could not help but glare at him.  Seeing this his smile widened and he seemed about to start laughing again.  He cleared his throat, trying to look quite serious.  Carefully looking everywhere but at me, he continued.  "Though I am rather surprised to hear of her return, after the scandals she caused during her last London Season."

This was news to me.  "What scandals? When was this?"

He smiled broadly, always happy to know something I did not.  "It would have been about 1884, no excuse me, '85.  Must have been during one of your reclusive periods but still, I am surprised you didn't hear of it.  Really, Dorian.  I can understand why you drop out of sight for a few years, but you miss so much while you are gone.  Besides, someday, someone is going to question the seemingly endless supply of Gray cousins named Dorian.  'It's an old family name' indeed."

"Henry!"  I barked, abruptly ending his speech before he could get started on the general stupidity of the English upper class.  "I believe you were telling me about Mrs. Harker.  A scandal, you said?"

Give me moment…" he paused, brow furrowing.  "Ah, yes.  Wilhelmina Harker, well she would have been Wilhelmina Murray then.  The season was ending and it was her friend, Miss Lucy Westenra, who was much talked about.  She was quite a beauty – one of those rare specimens combining the best of the old bloodlines and none of the bad.  She was the undisputed _belle_ of that Season.  After a merry chase by a number of eager young men, it was rumored that Miss Westenra had finally accepted the proposal of Mr. Arthur Holmwood."

Now that was a familiar name. "Not the _Honorable_ Arthur Holmwood! But Lord Godalming didn't marry this Miss Westenra.  Lady Godalming, Evelien I believe, is French, is she not?  What happened with Miss Westenra?" _(1)_  

I knew the answer was going to be unsatisfactory before he even spoke; he was wearing that most maddening self-satisfied expression, again. "She died." 

"Ah, death—the answer _du jour_.  Tell me; Is everyone one would want to inquire about already dead?"

Lord Henry smiled genuinely at that.  "Probably, considering what little there is chose from among the living.  The case of Miss Westenra was not quite so simple though.  It is my understanding that she developed some sort of health problem on a few months into the engagement.  The family called in that detestable fanatic, Van Helsing.  He had been the terror of society some years before, if you recall."

"How could one forget?  He was barking mad—with his talk of demons in the night and abnormal fixations on blood.  I was surprised he managed to maintain any sort of following.  Of course, the blue-blooded have never been admired for their astuteness and he did make dinner conversation interesting, if a little gruesome."  I shuddered at the memory of the repellent little man constantly alert for potential benefactors to support his research.

"Well, nothing came of his interventions; Lucy Westenra was dead and buried by autumn.  Holmwood was despondent.  He took off on some continental adventure, spurred on by Van Helsing who, it was said, was the only one who had his confidence during those dark months.  Miss Murray went with him to join her fiancé who was transacting some sort of business there."

_At last we were returning to the lady in question.  Enough of this now-deceased Miss Westenra.  _"Fiancé?  Ah, this would be Mr. Harker, I assume.  Who was he and how is he involved in our little narrative?"

"Who was he? Nobody really, a nobody with a few providential connections.  A young solicitor with no background or circumstance to speak of.  There was talk of an important client, a noble of some sort from Eastern Europe, who was looking at property around London.  The gentleman was in London for that Season but attended only a few functions as Harker's guest."

_The more he spoke the more confusing this became._  "Why was Miss Murray affianced to this nobody?"    

"The better question would be why he was affianced to her.  I believe her father was a teacher or maybe a tradesman.  I don't remember the exact details.  I do remember the whispers and gossip when Miss Westenra insisted on bringing Miss Murray along to teas and socials.  Miss Murray was a girl of unremarkable birth, destined to earn her living or perhaps, if she were fortunate, marry well enough to become comfortably _bourgeois_.  What's more, she was always far too opinionated and intelligent for a society woman.  Van Helsing himself once said she had far to good of a mind for a woman, as if were wasted on her."

"Van Helsing is a fool!" _Though he was surely not the only one to think such things about her; society was vicious to outsiders._

"Well, yes—that goes without saying. But I think he meant it as a tribute_(2)_. Many others repeated his comment meaning it as criticism. You should know that I was not one of those shunning Miss Murray for her mind.  The few times I conversed with her, I was delighted by her wit and shrewdness.  She could see through a faulty argument no matter how cleverly it was veiled and wasn't at all shy about exposing it.  She was really quite unpopular with those who fancied themselves great thinkers, for she had no qualms about revealing their stupidity in very public settings, especially when they challenged her."

What a delightful mental image!  To think of that delicate creature turning her fire on the puffed-up pretenders and the self-aggrandizing charlatans of society.  "No wonder!  She must have ruffled a lot of feathers.  You are beginning to make me truly sorry I missed all the fun.  But please, continue."

"Where was I?  Oh yes, so off they all went; Holmwood, Van Helsing, Miss Murray and I believe one of Miss Westenra's other suitors accompanied them.  It was a peculiar little group.  Holmwood returned to London sometime early the next year, in plenty of time to assume his title and his seat in Parliament.  Wilhelmina returned as well, as Mrs. Harker.  The next Season came and Lord Godalming was at every event with his fiancé on one arm and Mrs. Harker on the other.  They were inseparable, those three."

"Wait, what of the expedition?  What happened to Mr. Harker and the rest?"

"No one knows.  Only those two returned; Lord Godalming, who seemed to have aged 10 years in the interim, and Mrs. Harker, a pale figure draped in widow's weeds."

_Henry had promised a scandal, a tale worth hearing.  So far this was half a tale, as best, and not nearly as scandalous as promised.  _"That's ridiculous—surely someone knows.  What was the talk at the time?  Really Henry, I cannot believe something that extraordinary was common knowledge, yet no one discovered the truth!"

Perhaps too much of my displeasure came through in my tone, for Henry took it personally and stopped the tale entirely.  "Calm yourself Dorian.  You are getting quite impatient in your old age.  I thought you enjoyed a good mystery."  When I started to protest once more, he sighed and asked exasperatedly, "Are you going to let me tell this or not?"

_If I was becoming more impatient, then Lord Henry was unquestionably becoming more theatrical with each passing year._  "Pardon me.  Do continue.  She made her debut as a shamefully beautiful widow and—"

"—And half the men of London were enchanted by her; married and single, young and old.  I have never seen such a spectacle.  She immediately became the center of every event she attended.  Whatever happened, the woman that returned was quite different from the girl departed.  Even now it is hard to say what had changed, or even what drew them to her.  She is a beautiful woman, but not remarkably so.  Her personality is engaging and pleasant but other women can boast the same.  Her mind?  Her figure?  Who knows, really?"

_I, for one, knew, but could not explain it any better than Henry had.  Besides, if I interrupted one more time, I might never hear where this was leading._

"I'm afraid I haven't explained it very well, but it was there – and everyone responded. Even some of the women were drawn to her, hovering, eager to be taken into her confidence.  But she had no use for them; she had no use for most of the men as well.  A few were selected and proudly escorted her for a week or so and then, over night, she would have a new set of favorites.  Needless to say, this did not endear her to those in the market for a husband, nor their mothers.  As I said, she also angered some of the men, mostly the more learned men.  Many of them were twice disgraced, as she snubbed those who had failed to best her in a debate, refusing to dance with them or even converse with them once they proved themselves dull.  Naturally, the most vicious rumors began to spread—some true, others obvious fabrications."

_At last we come to the scandal, which I was beginning to believe Henry fabricated in order to have license to pontificate uninterrupted._

"It was said a different carriage was seen each afternoon, waiting outside Carfax _(3)_.   Her residence at Carfax itself was the subject of gossip; there were whispers that the foreign noble her husband had been working for was so taken with her that he gave the estate to her, _as a gift_.  As the Season progressed, the ranks of those against her grew and the incident with the youngest son of the Earl of Carrington turned the rest against her.  The young man was besotted with her, to the point some claimed she had bewitched him.  He courted her openly and just as openly she retreated from his advances.  Again, no one knows what actually happened but he died mysteriously, a boating accident the family claimed, though everyone believed it to be suicide.  That scandal was more than even Lord Godalming's influence could quiet.  She hastily left London, to travel abroad with a infirm aunt."

Continental excursions were always popular for those waiting for scandal to die down, but an infirm aunt? That was a mediocre excuse, at best.  I myself had disappeared to take care of a fictional peasant uprising on the family holdings in Albania, allegedly captained a ship trekking around the Cape, and even let it be said I joined a monastery in a remote corner of Scotland.  Of course, I doubt anyone _believed_ those excuses anymore than I believed in this ailing aunt, but at least my falsehoods had flair.  Before I could inquire further, a shrill voice echoed down the hall.

"Papa!  Dinner is ready and we have been waiting."

While the title may have been affectionate, the tone was anything but.  The study door flew open, banging against the wall.  Lord Henry's daughter-in-law stormed into the room, stopping abruptly upon seeing me and looking even more sour than usual.

"Oh, are you still here, Mr. Gray?  I suppose you want to stay for dinner?"  She glared at me, daring me to agree.

She was a perfect embodiment of the inbred aristocrat; her long, plain face framed by dull brown hair, her sallow complexion marred even further by the angry spots of color on her cheeks. I answered calmly, knowing it would irritate her. "If it is not too much trouble, I'd be delighted to stay."

"Well, it is quite a bit of trouble.  Everything is already set for the _family_.  The servants would have to lay another place and I am sure the cook will be upset by such an abrupt change of plans."

"In that case, I would be delighted.  Henry and I will be along shortly."  Her whole face was slowly turning purple, yet she remained silent.  She leveled a truly hateful look at her father-in-law and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Seeing Henry barely restraining his laughter, I couldn't help but have the last word.  "She gets more charming each time I see her.  Your son is very lucky indeed."

"Lucky to have membership at the finest clubs in London, so he rarely needs come home, you mean.  It gives me great pleasure to awake each morning, just so I can see Lady Wotton's profound disappointment when I appear for breakfast."

"She's still hoping you'll shove off so she can get her hands on the full estate, is she?  Ungrateful sow!  You stepped down and let Albert have your seat, your title – what more can she want?  The crown itself?"

He laughed at this, but it was a bitter, hollow laugh. "Knowing her, probably, but what can be done?   We all have our crosses to bear; you seem to have appointed yourself hers.  She thoroughly despises you, Dorian.  Do you have to torment her so?  It puts her in a dreadful mood for days."

If I thought he was anything but delighted by my constant insolence to his daughter-in-law, I might have answered less mockingly.  As it was, I saw the glee he was careful to conceal whenever I dreamed up a new way to exasperate the woman.  "I'm surprised at you!  Is there no honor among thieves?  What's next—admonishing me in front of the harpy, as if I were the age I appear, or worse, threatening to cease inviting me altogether?  "

The teasing had the desired effect, his peevishness fading as he readied himself for dinner. "You know you will be invited; she has to put up with you, not only for my sake but for the sake of appearances.  You are far too prominent a member of society for her to ban you from the estate, though I am sure she would love to."

He paused, turning slowly and silently requesting my approval of his appearance.  I straightened his jacket, brush a bit off ash off his shoulder as he continued.

"Have no fear.  I'll make sure you are here, right beside me, for every event.  After all, you can't leave me here to suffer alone—not after you rile her like that.  Let's go down to dinner, where we will be subjected to listening to every detail of her plans for this year's ball and a sermon on the complexity of inviting just the right guests. Maybe you can make her choke on her soup again.  Now that was entertaining."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) British titles are directly related to the land holdings that traditionally accompanied the peerage.  Therefore, it was not at all uncommon for a gentleman to assume a completely different surname upon inheriting a title.  Thanks to Kate for this clear and succinct explanation of something that always confused poor, American me. _

_(2) Van Helsing did say something to this effect in 'Dracula' and did intend it as high praise.  He rather liked Mina's brains and spunk. _

_(3) The hours reserved for afternoon tea were a popular time for gentleman to attend a private tea with their mistresses.  These affairs were not particularly secretive, as the gentlemen would leave their carriages prominently parked in front of the residence of their lady friend._


	13. A Captivating Correspondence

**Author's Note:** _Yes, yes.  I am not dead.  I have not abandoned this fic.  Life just got in the way for a bit.  For those who hadn't noticed – this underwent a major re-write.  Everything is renumbered so you are not going mad if you thought Chapter 12 was what I posted right before Thanksgiving.  It is now Chapter 11.  The first 4 chapters got the biggest tweaking.  It is probably worth your while to go back and read the new Prologue – lest you be quite confused when we get to the Epilogue.  _

_A special thanks to FoxFire1 for the beta – as always, it is appreciated.  That and if you get the jokes maybe the rest of the readers will!  Thanks also to GreyMoon74 for poking me every now and again to make sure I was still alive and slaving away on this.  _

_Enjoy! Review if you like!  But mainly refrain from throwing things in my direction for how long this took! Gratzie! (01-22-04)_

****

**Chapter 12 – A Captivating Correspondence**

Mrs. Harker's lively past, and her witty note, gave me much to think on.  As recommended in her missive, I settled my dealings with Mr. Bly by sending the remainder of his wages along to his sister.  Van Helsing may have had a point about her shrewdness, for it was clear in her response that she saw my 'repentance' for precisely what it was.  Yet there was much to be read between the lines of her letter.  She mentioned our next meeting as if it were a certainty and that ending quote clearly necessitated response.  Rather than rush to compose an appropriate rejoinder, for I had nothing to gain by either speed or further insincerity, I did something I rarely do; I waited.  Early the next week, I happened to meet her taking part in the daily spectacle in Hyde Park _(1)_.  She looked genuinely pleased as I maneuvered my mount next to her rig.  She was addressing a woman in the coach opposite, with whom I was unacquainted.  Quickly finishing her conversation, she turned to me with a look that can only be described as relief.  Before I could chide her for forgetting decorum and failing to introduce me, another carriage came rushing over, the horses kicking up a cloud of dust and nearly running me down.  It is impossible to describe my lack of surprise, to see Lord and Lady Godalming, smiling warmly at me all while spinning a reason from thin air for Mina to join them and send her own buggy home.  She, of course, acceded but not, I think, without regret.  Being denied conversation in person, I turned to my ink and paper.    

_                           28th of April, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                          Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker_

_                          Carfax_

_                          Madame Harker,_

_                          What a pleasant surprise to see you yesterday!  You looked quite fetching in your riding ensemble, as I would have told you in person, had                           _

_                          Lord Godalming not attempted to drive his carriage through me.  I may be misreading the portents, but I am getting the distinct impression he _

_                          does not care for me.  I cannot imagine why he should have taken a dislike for me.  For the time being, I am reduced to communicating with _

_                          you from the relative safety of my study; for, while a horse could fit in here, I am sure at least one of the servants would notice him as he _

_                          navigated the stairs from the foyer._

_                          I did not recognize the quote that ended your note–An interesting thought that.  I appreciate the advice concerning the disguising of pride.  _

_                          It would never do to veil it as the first thing another might guess and, in accordance, with your sage counsel, I have sworn off humility _

_                          entirely.  May I inquire the name of the name of the man that penned those words?_

_                          Your no longer humble servant,_

_                          Dorian _

She was not as prompt as before and a few days passed before I received an answer to my note.  Any worries that I had made too bold a move were erased when her messenger, yet another scruffy errand boy, delivered not only a letter, but a small parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper.  It proved to be a slim volume beautifully bound in rich scarlet leather, the lettering carefully worked in ornate, curling gold lettering.  I looked to the letter for explanation.__

_                          30th of April, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray_

_                          Melmoth House_

_                          Mr. Gray,_

_                          Please excuse the delay in responding to your charming note.  As you have probably discovered, I have taken the liberty of securing a copy                           _

_                          of De La Rochefoucauld's **"**Réflexions ou sentences et maximes morales", which I referenced in my last letter.  This copy is the fifth, and _

_                          final, edition to appear during his lifetime.  I believe this edition to be far superior to later ones which, in their attempts to make the_

_                           language more accessible to the modern reader,  butchered the beauty and eloquence of his phrasing (2).  I am sure you will find much to _

_                          admire in his writings and philosophy.  Your decision to eschew false humility brought to mind maxim 196.  I am sure you have other _

_                          avenues for amusement, yes?_

I, of course, paused to check maxim 196.  It read 'What keeps us from abandoning ourselves entirely to one vice, often, is the fact we have several'.  I began to understand why her wit did not endear her to society; she often hit a little too close to the mark for comfort.  I, however, was enchanted by her odd little sense of humor; it well suited my own tendency towards cynicism.

_                          If you have not abandoned the arts as amusement, perhaps I will see you at the opening of new gallery in Peckham Road next Tuesday (3).  _

_                          It is to be known as the South London Fine Art Gallery and is said to be beginning with quite an impressive collection, on loan from _

_                          numerous subscribers.  I am glad of the opportunity to view works rarely seen outside of the homes of collectors.  Considering our mutual _

_                          appreciation of the visual arts, I thought perhaps you were planning to attend.  In any case, I hope you will take pleasure in perusing De La _

_                          Rochefoucauld._

_                          Regards,_

_                          Wilhelmina Harker_

_                          P.S. It may also interest you to know that Lord and Lady Godalming have another engagement that afternoon that prevents them from _

_                          attending the opening.  _

Indeed, it interested me a great deal to be informed of the intended absence of the Godalmings at this gallery opening and I arranged my calendar accordingly.  It proved a very providential decision.  I received the most charming letter from her after our meeting at the gallery.

_                          5th of May, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray_

_                          Melmoth House_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray,_

_                          First, my apology, for I simply cannot bring myself to call you Dorian, despite your insistence yesterday.  Let me again express my thanks for _

_                          coming to my rescue.  Mr. Netherfield (4) would have held me captive all afternoon if not for your swift intervention.  I must admit I was _

_                          surprised at your extensive knowledge of art – really you should be a lecturer on the subject.  I found your comments regarding the painters _

_                          of the Northern Renaissance quite amusing.  I had suspected that your tastes ran more to the artists than the art but you proved that _

_                          assumption incorrect.  I am not sure which was more amusing; your commentary on the art or the 'connoisseurs' admiring the art. This                           _

_                          season promises to be interesting. If you continue to provide such delightfully improper conversation, I will consider any redress owed me _

_                          fulfilled._

_                          It is said no good deed goes unpunished and that would seem to be the case with your kindness to me.  Mr. Netherfield is a long time _

_                          acquaintance of Lord Godalming and he wasted no time in complaining to Arthur about your conduct.  I think Arthur intends to confront you _

_                          in some way.   I hope he won't be too tiresome about the whole thing._

_                          Mina Harker_

The warning was kind but unnecessary as 'Arthur' seemed content with scowling at me whenever he noticed Mina and I together, which became frequently.  We sought each other's company as a retreat from the pretense and political maneuverings of society events and could often be found talking quietly together at teas, balls and the like.  I am not sure what spurred him to action but I received an interesting note from him after one such meeting.

_                          19th of May, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray_

_                          Melmoth House_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray,_

_                          I will not insult your intelligence by prevaricating. I am concerned about the new closeness between yourself and Mrs. Harker.  Be careful.  _

_                          You are a man with quite a reputation and not a few enemies in London.  I am watching you carefully and will not hesitate to give you cause                           _

_                          to regret any misconduct towards her or any harm to her reputation.  _

_                          Lord Godalming _

He would not have been pleased at the delight I took in his thinly veiled challenge.  It took only a moment to devise the perfect response, on which served the dual purpose of annoying him greatly and amusing Mina.  How could I resist such a temptation?

_                          20th of May, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-One_

_                          Mr. Dorian Gray_

_                          Melmoth House_

_                          Dorian,_

_                          I am sure you can imagine how irritated Arthur was to receive your reply so I will not give you further cause for amusement by repeating                           _

_                          any of the things he said.  I am instructed to write and accept your invitation to join you in your box at the Royal English Opera House this _

_                          Friday evening.  _

_                          Oh dear, Arthur is trying to read this as I write.  I am looking forward to the evening.  Hopefully there will be a minimum amount of _

_                          bloodshed.  Do humor the dear – he thinks it his duty to protect me._

_                          Mina _

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_(1) During the Season it was common for those of a certain standing to take a turn through Hyde Park, on horseback or in their carriages, in the morning.  As it was yet another opportunity to see and be seen, it is not at all surprising to find Dorian there._

_(2) All of Mina's details and opinions on the various editions of De La Rochefoucauld's work are based in fact.  _

_(3) The South London Fine Art Gallery did indeed open for the first time on May 4th, 1891.  The particulars are as described in Mina's letter. _

_(4) Mr. Netherfield is, of course, a reference to Austen's Pride and Prejudice, which is not in this time period but far too fun to pass up.  Netherfield was the residence of Mr. Bingley, his sister, Miss Bingley, and  Mr. Darcy.  The name always struck me as odd and not a little pornographic. _


End file.
